Born of Woman
by Screaming Faeries
Summary: During his doubtful moments of his terror reign, Tom visited three unusual women on a hill to straighten his mind. Quidditch Leagues


**A.N:** Please be aware that this is an AU, so most of the information you read and are confused about ISN'T canonical.

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He was too late.

Tom Riddle knew this much, as he hurried to where the three sisters resided in their hilltop home.

It was his own wretched fault. He'd been too carefree when he'd taken the lives of others in order to ensure that his rise to victory was immaculate. The wars he had waged had been fine; those murders had been clean and guilt-free. It was the murder of the man he overtook that plagued his daydreams and haunted his nightmares.

Albus Dumbledore had been a fine and powerful leader of the Wizarding World, and Tom Riddle had the gall to admit that much. But Tom was greedy—he wanted his power, his glory, and everything that came with it. So he, along with the help of his most loyal servant, Bellatrix—had plotted to murder Albus Dumbledore, and they had succeeded.

But there were rumours. Rumours of an elite 'chosen one' who would be coming to take over his throne. Whilst Tom held no fear of this enigmatic hearsay, he knew that he still had to take precaution. Pieces of his soul were scattered around, and as each one was destroyed, a slice of him was taken too.

There was no choice but to seek answers from the women who had proclaimed his future from the start.

He entered the lavish, large home with ease, despite the hefty walls and gate designed to keep people out. It really was a beautiful home—a huge, white-bricked mansion, with balconies and wide, airy windows—but Tom wasn't here to admire the décor.

Upon heading through the hallway, Tom heard voices almost immediately.

" _Never_ tell a girl you like her!" a woman hissed, in a throaty, croaking voice. "It makes you look like an idiot. Now leave." In the next breath, a young, honey-haired chap hurried from the archway ahead, looking somewhat flustered. He left without making eye contact with Tom—as many often did.

The woman he had come to speak to floated through the archway next, and her appearance didn't fail to shock Tom. The lady, who was aged more than four-hundred years, was dressed in swathes of shimmery purple and spangled silver, the material which fell to the floor in dramatic long sleeves and cloaks. Her snow-white hair reached her waist, and was as thick and dense as unattended cotton, curling softly around her wrinkled, leathery face. Her thin lips widened in a knowing smile when she spotted Tom in the hallway.

"The boy wanted to take one of my granddaughters on a...what do they call it these days...a _date_. But he's not the right man for her." The woman had dozens, maybe even hundreds of granddaughters. Being several generations older than them tended to do that to someone, and all of the girls lived here in this magnificent manor with her and her sisters.

"I'm here to discuss the prophecy," he stated coolly, keeping his dark eyes trained on her. She continued to smile.

"We know why you're here, Tom. We've been expecting you. Come through."

She spun around in a dramatic whirl of silvery shawls, and began marching through the house with an odd grace for such an old woman. Tom followed her with his head held high, ignoring the many women, young and old, who sat around in the mansion. After what seemed like an age and many steps, she and Tom finally reached the top room in the mansion.

Unlike the rest of the house, which was designed to be clean and white and minimalist, this room was completely different. It was dark, with a large wooden table in the middle, holding a crystal ball and various other foreseeing objects. The room was draped with the same shimmery material that the old woman wore, and two other elderly ladies sat at the wooden table.

"Cordelia," Tom nodded to the first, who was extremely short, coming up to no more than about three foot. "Calisto," he nodded to the second, who was leering at him with an odd glint in her eye. Calisto was the only woman of the three sisters who could be considered to still be beautiful, with her large expressive eyes and full, pink lips.

The third woman, the one who had greeted Tom, sat between her sisters. "Cassandra," he finished, meeting her eyes. Cassandra, Calisto and Cordelia Trelawney were the most renowned Seers of their generation, Tom's generation, and many generations both in and after that.

"You need not worry, Tom," Cassandra stated, leaning forward and placing her palms on the large crystal ball in front of her. A deep, white light inside the glass started to burn brightly, flames tickling the spots where her hands were. "You are in no danger as of yet."

"But what about the chosen one?" he asked. "Does he plan to take me down?"

"Of course," Calisto murmured, the glimmer never leaving her eye.

"But you won't be defeated by anyone born of a woman," Cordelia finished, a smirk spreading across her features.

As Tom later left the manor, confidence filled him. After all—who wasn't born from a woman?

oOo

It wasn't until sometime a lot later, when he could feel life ebbing away at his wretched frame, and gazing up at the man he knew to be Harry Potter, that he knew.

Harry Potter hadn't been born of a woman. He was delivered by caesarian.

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Written for the Quidditch Leagues Fanfiction Competition.

Prompts Used: Macbeth, (quote) _Never_ tell a girl you like her. It makes you look like an idiot. (opening sentence) (S)he was too late. (word) Burning.

Word count: 964


End file.
